The Psychopath: A Maitland Noir Thriller #1, page 4
The fourth copper suddenly takes charge. He steps back from the one who’s shouting and waves his hands for silence. Next, he’s gesturing and pointing, stabbing a finger towards the two other coppers. I see him keep turning his head towards the lorry driver. Must be asking questions. I see the lorry driver nodding and shaking his head again, the oh-so-anxious-to-please bastard.
The two coppers are running towards their cop car. Doors slamming. I hear the engine roar as the car skids, turning round by the crossroads and racing back up the hill towards me.
I see the car coming, swerving behind the lorry and back on to the right side of the road again. Out of sight for a moment, then back again, accelerating up the hill. I lose sight of it once more behind the trees lining the road.
The trees hide the car from me.
The trees shelter me from them too, of course.
Little old me sitting here in my tree.
I’m clever. I told you, didn’t I? No use running when that lorry driver gave the game away. They all looked up, the coppers. Stood there waiting. What did they expect to happen? Me to break cover and start running? No way. They’d be on me within minutes, that’s for sure.
I just stepped back behind this tree and lifted myself up into its branches.
Easy. Took seconds, that’s all.
The cop car roars up, going faster and faster. Level with me now, and then away, moving one hundred, two hundred yards and more off and up the hill. I can’t see it any more. But I hear it screech to a halt. It’s some way up on the road behind me. I can’t tell how far. Hard to judge.
Got to think quickly.
Act fast.
Do I stay or make a break for it?
I have to do something. There are two coppers coming up towards me on foot from below. There are two coppers now out of their cop car high above me, coming down towards me.
Piggy in the middle, that’s me.
What do I do? You tell me. Stay or go?
Hurry. Make your fucking mind up.
To one side, it’s scrubland – I’d be seen as soon as I broke cover from the trees. To the other, downwards, I can see the dark swirl of the River Trent.
The Trent – is that my best chance to get away? It has to be. Maybe my only chance.
The copper in charge and the other copper will be up into the woods in a minute or two. Moving slowly, searching. How long will it be before the rest of the coppers arrive? Once that busybody copper in charge has radioed everything back to CID, they’ll be drafting in cop cars from all around to come here.
So more coppers?
And dogs?
Have they already called for dogs?
If they bring the dogs, I’m done for. I’ll never outrun them. They’ll take the dogs to the lorry. Let them get the scent of me.
Then they’ll bring the dogs up the hill. Barking, snarling, straining to be set free. To hunt me down. They’d be let loose when they picked up my scent again by the side of the road. Just where that lorry driver let me out.
I’d stand no chance. They’d be on me in less than a minute. Scratching and tearing at my clothes, ripping them to shreds. They’d probably kill me if they got my throat. If the coppers didn’t stop them. And they wouldn’t, would they? They’d laugh and jeer and urge the dogs on. Because I’d led them a merry dance. Made them look like the fools they are.
The river’s my only option. If I get in the river, the dogs won’t be able to track me. The river will wash off my scent. Dogs can’t follow a scent through water. The coppers won’t know where I’ve gone. To Nottingham? Towards Newark? Out towards Grantham? Good as lost me again then, haven’t they?
All I’ve got to do is climb down from this tree. Keep my eyes on the crossroads, the road to my right, and listen out for the coppers. I’ll move down to the edge of the woods close to the river. I’ve got to do it; I have to take that chance.
Sitting upright, I slide my knees down. Stretch my legs out either side of a branch. My legs feel stiff. My bones ache. It’s the tablets, see? I said before, didn’t I? Yes, I told you that, remember? I’ve stopped taking them but they are still in my system. They should wear off in a day or two, though. I’ll feel better then, much better, just you wait and see. I’ll think straighter. Clearer too.
I pause.
Wait.
Listen.
I can’t hear anything. The coppers are not close enough for me to hear a sound. I’ve got to go before I do.
I turn, lift my left leg over the branch. Slowly turn again and lower myself down to the next one. Hold tight, slide and sit on it. Hold on. Listen again. Still no noise.
Nothing. I turn and slip down once more, holding on to the branch. Lower my body. Not quite touching the ground. I look down. Only three or four feet. I drop, land and lose my balance. Fall forward onto my knees, my weight pulling me over.
Have I been heard?
I wait. Not breathing.
Still no sound.
It’s almost as though I’m out on my own. It’s dark down here, but I can still see moonlight through the branches.
I move quickly. Between the trees. I’m making a noise. Slippers crunching on the undergrowth. Like running on gravel. No one nearby to hear though, so I just keep going.
I’ve got to get to the edge of the woods. Pause. Look out across to the crossroads and the river. Pause again.
I’ll run as fast as I can. Down the hill, across the open scrubland. Over and down and into the river.
The lorry driver. He’ll be in the cop car. He’ll see me. He’ll lean forward from the back seat. All he has to do is slam his palm down on the car horn. He’ll hold it there. All the cops will hear. They’ll see me before I can dive in. Could I still escape? No, too tired, too exhausted. I’ve been going so long now. Far too long. I’m near the end, I’ll tell you that. I’m at the end of my rope already.
I move along the trees marking a line between the woods and the scrubland. Farther and farther to my left I move, as fast and as far as I can. I can’t go too far. It looks marshy way over to my left. If I go much further, I could get stuck in it. I’m still under cover and well away from the crossroads, the road and the lorry, and the cop car with the lorry driver in it.
What I’ve got to do is simple. Dead simple. I’ve got to find some undergrowth that stretches down from the woods to the river. Somewhere I can crawl and keep crawling. Staying low, the lorry driver won’t see me. He might not be watching anyway. Or maybe he’ll be looking the other way. It’s dark, of course. And I’ll be low, flat as I can and crawling on my belly.
Is this far enough?
Here?
I can make out the lorry driver in the car, just.
Or am I imagining it? It’s hard to tell from this distance. I can’t see which way he’s looking. I can’t really make him out much at all. Surely he can’t see me, though. And the coppers? Can they see me? Not yet. But they could when I break cover. Unless I keep low and crawl fast.
And then I hear it. In the distance. Behind me. From the road. Farther up, back from the way we came in on the lorry. Faint now. But becoming louder.
It’s not an ‘it’, of course. It’s a ‘them’. I can hear them now, ever so clear they are. And it’s not the coppers’ police car sirens either.
Dogs is what it is.
Just like I fucking told you.
Fucking listen for once, why don’t you?
The four coppers must have guessed I’d run back when I jumped from the lorry. Away from them at the crossroads. Back up the way we came. So they radioed CID for more coppers and dogs. To go two, three miles back up, come down and flush me out.
The coppers would come up from the crossroads. Moving up the hill. They’d keep driving me backwards, towards the new coppers and dogs. I’d be trapped in the middle, sure to be caught.
I’ve got to go now.
Right now.
I’m at the edge of the trees and about as far away as I can get without going on to the marshland. There’s just yards and yards of scrub in front of me to crawl across and I’m at the river and away. I’m so close to freedom.
I drop to my knees. Lie down. Start crawling, moving forward as quickly as I can.
Dogs coming closer. Still some way away. But getting nearer. How far? How long have I got?
I’ve got to keep crawling. There’s no noise from the cop car. Can the lorry driver see me? I must keep low.
The dogs are louder now. They’re pulling on their leashes, eager to be released.
I look up.
Two hundred yards? I’m useless at distances.
No more than that, surely.
Have the dogs been let loose? They sound very loud. And spread out, too. They’re all behind me and getting closer by the second. Have the dogs got my scent already?
Maybe they’re running free. They’ll be here in minutes – maybe less than that.
Just keep going. Almost there now. Not far.
One hundred yards?
Fifty?
Getting closer every second.
There’s still no sound from the cop car. I want to look. Check he can’t see me. I daren’t though. There’s no time. The dogs are in the woods. Their barking sounds different. Echoing almost. How soon before they’re out and coming down behind me?
Less than a minute, I’d guess.
Sixty seconds is all I’ve got.
These clothes don’t help. Dressing gown and slippers. I wish I could shake myself free of them.
I’m almost there. I lie still for two or three seconds. I can’t wait.
Look left. Nothing.
Look right. All clear.
Still no noise from the cop car.
But the dogs are close now, very close. They’re about to come racing out of the woods. They’re almost on me.
I’ve got to break cover. Have to do it now.
I lift myself up. It seems incredibly far. I’m waiting for the sound of the cop car horn any moment.
Any second now.
Here it comes.
That terrible sound.
Yes, I’ve done it! I fucking well have. I’m on the bank of the river, slipping and sliding downwards into the water’s edge. My feet are in the water. It’s black and filthy. Stinks too.
I don’t care.
I’ve made it.
The dogs are now in the open. Out of the woods, and spreading across. I can’t tell, for sure. I drop into the water, the dressing gown billowing up around me.
The cold hits me; I gasp for breath, struggling to stand up. I pull the dressing gown around my waist. I’ll lose it soon, though, as quickly as I can.
I drop back down and start swimming downstream.
I’m not sure where.
I keep close to the river’s edge by the trees.
I’m away.
Free.
They’ll not catch me now. Not tonight anyway. Even if they track me to the river, I’ll be downstream and gone. They won’t know which way I’ve swum. Up, down or across. But what next?
I’m in a freezing river.
I’m in my dressing gown and slippers.
I’m cold and I’m wet and I’m exhausted.
I’m one hundred and fifty fucking miles from Aldeburgh and my little William.
I’ve no money.
No proper clothes.
And I’ll be all over the news tomorrow. Not just the press, TV too. The BBC, all of that.
So you tell me – what the fuck do I do next?
8
6.55am, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
“Can you really face this all over this weekend . . . in front of your mother?” says Nat, the young woman, struggling to keep the little boy from wriggling out from beneath her legs and away. “Help me, why don’t you?”
Rick, the young man, steps forward, “William,” he says sharply, using the boy’s full name, “stop it. Lie still and behave yourself.”
The boy takes no notice. When he is fully awake, as he is now, he always tries just as hard as he can to avoid the injections. His legs and tummy have had so many.
He knows he is being naughty.
He does not want to be.
But the injections hurt and make him feel sick.
He always hopes, if he wriggles hard for long enough, that his mama and papa might give up and leave him alone. But they never have. Not yet anyway.
His papa would say it is good for him.
To have the injections.
The little boy does not understand why.
The man presses down on the boy’s arms, which just makes him twist his head more. He bangs it against the floor, which stuns him for a moment, his large blue eyes staring up at the two adults now pinning him down.
“If your mother could see us now . . . she probably will see us . . . what will she say?” says Nat, trying to move the needle towards the top of William’s leg without him seeing it. “I h-a-t-e this, really, it’s too much.”
As Rick loosens his grip, the boy pushes at the needle, as he always does with his mama, knocking it away as it scratches his skin.
“Will,” she shouts, “you need to let me do this, you need to be still.”
Their eyes lock, hers full of frustration, his close to tears.
He tries to smile at his mama.
Sometimes that makes her happy.
He likes to see his mama laugh.
“It’ll be okay,” says Rick, suddenly sweeping the woman and the boy into his arms and hugging them clumsily. “Let’s calm down and watch some cartoons for a while. Have some Weetabix. Do it after that. We have to do this together. That’s all.”
“There’s just so much, all the time. It’s non-stop.”
“It’ll get better . . . as he gets older. He should be able to do some of it himself.”
The boy smiles contentedly.
He likes it when they all hug like this. It makes him happy.
9
7.42am, SATURDAY 31 OCTOBER
No need to worry about me.
Everything is fine.
All is well and good, thank you.
I’m downstream, did I say? Not as far as I’d have liked, but far enough away. I reckon I’m safe now. It’s all quiet, has been for ages actually.
I started off well enough and the sounds of the dogs soon faded as I kept swimming farther and farther away. I swam on for as long as I could, hearing nothing except for the occasional noise of traffic far off in the distance.
But the water’s cold, so fucking cold it freezes the blood in your veins.
After no more than ten minutes at most, I had to stop. Get out.
Later, I tried to swim again.
And again.
One more time.
But the cold comes so close to paralysing you that you think you’re going to die and have to get out.
So I walked for a bit.
And the air, a chill breeze, seemed to dry me a little.
And I walked for a while longer by the edges of the water.
I knew I could not go on much more.
Then I got lucky.
The river, twisting and turning, led me to where I am now. Hidden in a dense mass of trees and bushes by the side of the river. Opposite me, woodland stretches out as far as I can see upstream and downstream.
I’m safe – no one will penetrate through that to get to this part of the river.
Why would they want to?
Behind me, up and on the bank a dozen feet away, is a fence. Several fences as a matter of fact. I’ve ended up behind of one of those new housing estates in the back of beyond. Lots of little boxes. Matchbox-sized gardens. Neat and tidy fences. Fucking suburban heaven for wankers in suits.
Four houses back up to the river where I am. I guess they’re part of a cul-de-sac. The owners have each put up fences to close off their gardens from each other and the river. I can sit and watch what’s happening at each house through the knots and tears in the wooden fences.
No one in the houses can see me.
I sit and watch and wait to see what happens. I’ve got ideas, you know. A plan, actually. A little plan of action. But I’ve got to think it all through first. It takes time to do that even if you’re a cunning devil like me.
I can’t wait here for long, mind you.
It’s still cold, very cold.
I’ll catch my death.
I’ve stripped down to my T-shirt and trousers. I’ve wrung them out of course (I’m not stupid). First the T-shirt, then the trousers. Gave them a good shaking before putting them back on again. They feel alright, I suppose. They’re quite loose on me actually. I’m not fat. And there’s a breeze. Still a chilly one as a matter of fact.
I got rid of that dressing gown way back upstream. I said, didn’t I? I had to. It soaked up the water, dragging me down, slowing me up. I swam to the riverbank, stood up, stripped it off and bundled it deep into the undergrowth. It’ll never come loose, not in a hundred years. No one will ever find that, I can tell you.
Perfect.
Just perfect.
Things are taking shape.
I’m going to have to break into one of these houses. I don’t want to but I’ve no choice. I can’t hide here for much longer. It’s just too cold. Far too cold. I need clean, dry clothes for a start. And money. I can’t get far without cash. And food, I must have some food. I’m starving.
I’m waiting to see when the owners of one of the houses will go out. Maybe to work. Lots of people do on a Saturday. Or maybe they’ll go out for the day, to the shops or a garden centre. That’s what middle-class people on housing estates do for fun. I’d rather put a fork in my testicles, to tell the truth.
Won’t be long now.
It must be getting on for nine o’clock. Someone will leave their house empty. I’ll force the back door and slip in oh-so-quietly. Out again just as smoothly. No one will ever know.
It’s an offence, of course it is. Someone as smart as me knows that. But the beauty is that nobody will ever realise I’ve been in and out. Not if I’m clever, which I am (as you well know).
They’ve all got patio doors, these four houses. You can get in and out of a property with those dead easy. I’ll put my shoulder against the doors and push in slow but hard. They’ll pop open with barely a sound, just the bolt slipping out of its casing. You get a lot of noise and damage when you shoulder it hard and fast. Or kick it in – that’s when everything cracks and breaks. That’s when you get all the noise. I can’t afford any of that. Shoulder it slow and it slides open nicely for you.
